Interstellar

by Bob Mayer

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  DEATH

  THE ANCIENT ENEMY

  REVOLUTION

  NAGIL

  PRAYERS FOR THE DYING

  ARMIES FORM

  STONEFENDING

  ALL-LIFE

  STORM BREWING

  THE STORM

  VICTORY

  THE RECENT PAST

  THE PRESENT

  DECISIONS

  THE RECKONING

  THE ANCIENTS

  THE LIFE CORE

  Author Information; Excerpt; Copyright

  The Story of Our Earth Vs. the Airlia

  About the Author

  ALL BOOKS

  Copyright

  AREA 51:

  INTERSTELLAR

  By

  BOB MAYER

  DEATH

  NORTH STONE, EARTH15

  He wasn’t buried deep; he rarely was, if he was buried at all.

  Bren dug up the grave in a warm rain for which she was grateful. The water softened the ground and she didn’t have a spade. She used bare hands, the earth coming loose in oozing gobs, which she tossed to the side. Her fingers grazed flesh and she cleared mud away, revealing his arm.

  She was dressed in boots, dark, dirty trousers and a wool shirt underneath a supple leather, sleeveless jerkin. A sheathed sword hung on her left hip, occasionally getting in the way as she worked, but she would not take it off, even for this difficult task. A black dagger was on her right hip. Her brown hair was crudely cut and liberally sprinkled with gray, an indication of how long this iteration had lasted.

  As she cleaned him from the mud, it became obvious he was naked, his clothing and armor stripped from him in defeat. This had happened before; to her also. Both could be replaced, but the sword was a different matter. She would get that back from his killers.

  The grave was in the midst of forest carpeting a very wide valley, tall trees stretching to the sky, with very little undergrowth. Not far away was an eight-foot-high uniquely shaped stone to the left of the Lion’s Road. It rose straight from the ground, then halfway up made a thirty-degree angle pointing due north. North Stone indicated not only direction, but the separating line between North Valley and Southren. It was also the last place where one going north could go east or west and find a trail over the ridges on either side. From here a person going north was confined to the valley as the ridges grew taller and steeper.

  This confirmed this was the place for the meeting and where he’d been betrayed.

  The upper hemisphere of the continent consisted of dozens of these wide valleys, the terrain striated by tall ridgelines running longitudinally for hundreds of miles. As the valleys crawled further north, many joined together and they narrowed. Finally, just three major ones were left, North, Hegemony and the Wilds, coming together at the northern limit of the continent. Located there was a tall promontory of land jutting over the ocean, called Lion’s Head. On it, at the highest point, surrounded by seven stone walls, was the city of Atlantis. Set in the center of Atlantis was the Citadel-Tower, guarded by an impenetrable, invisible shield. It was the home of the Airlia, the gods the people of this world worshipped.

  But not Bren, since she wasn’t of this world. Nor the dead man. On their planet, they’d had their own Airlia who’d posed as gods, but that façade had been torn asunder long ago.

  He’d been wounded in the face, a gash starting above the left eye, through it, leaving just the goo of what had once been the organ, and into the cheekbone. The large amount of dried blood indicated it had not been the fatal wound; that had come afterward.

  “Oh, my dear Markus,” she whispered, tenderly stroking the unmarked side of his face. “I am so sorry for the pain you suffered.”

  Her hand slid down the face to clean his chest. She froze when she discovered the small hole in his sternum. A minor wound compared to the damage to his face, but of far more significance. With sudden anxiety, she shoved her hands into the wet soil on either side of his shoulders, grabbed hold, and pulled him to a sitting position. The body canted to the right as the fatal wounds were revealed: a half dozen arrow wounds in the back, the shafts snapped. But her focus was on the small hole in the front. She put the tip of a finger into it, feeling around.

  What had been secreted under flesh and into bone was gone.

  She desperately dug. No sign of what had been in there. Bren rocked back on her haunches for several seconds as she contemplated this development. The rain was warm but she shivered momentarily. Bren drew her knife and placed the point on the side of Markus’s head, where an old scar was barely visible. She pressed hard, the metal going through skin and penetrating the skull. She had done this before, but that didn’t make it any easier. She dug with the knife, working by feel. It hit something hard inside the soft tissue of the brain. Bren widened the incision and pulled the knife out. She probed with one finger. Found the metal pod. Curled her finger around it. She pulled, breaking the microscopic wires extending from it throughout the brain. She withdrew the pod and held it out in the rain to wash away the blood and brain matter. Then placed it in a pocket.

  She let go of the body and it rolled onto its side in the muddy hole, curling in a fetal position.

  She stepped out of the grave, raising her face to the rain, allowing it to clear some of the dirt away. The downpour had lessened but a long night was ahead. The major moon, Isis, was in retrograde and would soon be over the horizon. Tracking the killers wouldn’t be hard since she had not passed them on her journey from the south and there were no recent marks in the mud on the east-west trail. They were going north, back to where they’d come from: Atlantis.

  She picked up an oilcloth blanket which was twisted and tied in a long loop. It contained all her possessions, mainly dried meat, some changes of socks, and a spare set of pants. She put it over her head to rest on her right shoulder across her body to the left hip. A leather bota lined with goatskin and filled with water also went across her body and she turned its sling twice around the blanket to secure both tightly, making sure her sword and dagger were clear of obstruction.

  She didn’t bother to rebury her lover and companion. The body wasn’t him, it was just the vessel he’d occupied for this iteration. She had to find the sword and, of most importance, the device that had been hidden under his skin. She had one implanted in the same place, between her small breasts. Hidden, unless one was an attentive lover or knew to look for it.

  The killers had known to do so, which did not bode well.

  Their trail leaving this spot thirty feet in the forest angled northward to the Lion’s Road. Road was an optimistic term, with old paving stones half buried. It was a testament to those who’d built it that the way still existed, as traffic was sparse these dark days.

  Bren reached into a deep pocket on the inside of her tunic and pulled out a flat, round device, four inches in diameter and a quarter inch thick. She pressed a button and watched as the screen flickered, then a green arrow pointed to the north as she expected. She turned it off and returned it to the hiding place.

  Bren was ready to pursue, but paused and cocked her head, listening, sniffing, looking. She drew her sword, the blade unmarked and sharp. She slowly turned, trying to see into the dimness under the leafed-out trees. She saw no one but there was someone or something out there.

  Something flitted through the trees, four-legged, large.

  Bren debated running, but whatever it was could probably chase her down. A wolf, perhaps? But it was too big. Lions were long gone from this area, roaming much farther to the south. She stood her ground, but didn’t spot it again. After five minutes, she walked toward the road, still on guard.

  Movement to her left caused her to pivot. A dark figure stood between tw
o trees. Two legged.

  “Who is there?” she called out.

  “A friend.” The voice was male, deep, and with no accent to give an indication from what region he hailed.

  She shifted her stance, feet shoulder width apart, left leg forward, and brought the sword to the ready.

  The figure, wrapped in a long, green cloak, took several steps forward. His head was covered with the cloak’s hood, which hid his face in its shadow. There was a leather pack on his back and he had a tall staff in his right hand. A wide black belt was around his waist and there was no sign of a weapon but much could be hidden underneath the cloak.

  “It’s presumptuous of you to label yourself my friend,” she said, “since I don’t know you.” She didn’t lower the sword as he walked forward, halting ten feet away, angled from her on the edge of the road.

  “A valid point,” he allowed. “Will it suffice to say, for now, that I am not an enemy and mean you no harm?” He pulled the hood back, revealing a narrow, lined face, short gray hair and a clipped, well-trimmed, beard. Even in the darkness and rain, his blue eyes appeared to sparkle with an inner light. He gave a slight bow. “My name is Arcturus. And you are?”

  “Bren.”

  “A warrior?”

  “A traveler.”

  He tilted the staff toward the grave hidden in the trees. “Was he a friend?”

  “What do you speak of?”

  “The body you dug up. Was he a friend?”

  “He is.”

  “You speak of him as if he still lives,” Arcturus pointed out. “Yet his body, Markus was his name I believe I heard you say, will molder in the ground. Dust to dust as we all must end.”

  “He will always be with me,” Bren said. “Why do you lurk and spy?”

  “The larger question you should be asking is why am I here, at North Stone, of all the places I could be? Few travel the Lion’s Road these uncertain days.”

  “Your bad luck?” Bren suggested, taking a step forward, weapon at the ready.

  “That couldn’t be further from the truth,” Arcturus said. “It is your good fortune, and not by chance, that we finally meet.”

  “There’s a beast about,” Bren said. “I think it was a wolf.”

  “A beast?” Arcturus seemed amused. “Interesting. I saw no wolf.” He indicated the stone. “In the old days, the Lion’s Road was well maintained and not desolate like it is now. Many traveled it, safe under the protection of the Airlia. There is the east-west path, only dirt, but it was also busy. North Stone was both an indicator of direction and distance. Sadly, there are those who don’t know north from south, nor east from west. Few travel far from their homes these days, do they not?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I told you. My name is Arcturus. My comrades called me Art, but they are all long gone and I cared not for it.”

  “Did you have anything to do with this?” She nodded toward the grave.

  “If I did, I would be your enemy, and I am not. I heard the fighting from a distance and came to investigate. Then I heard you approaching and hid until I could determine whether you were a threat to me. A suitable precaution, do you not think?”

  “I’m supposed to take your word?”

  Arcturus sighed. “Would I stand here, weaponless, if it were not true?”

  “How do I know you’re unarmed?”

  He gave a brief smile. “It is good to be cautious.”

  “Why are you here?” Bren asked.

  Arcturus turned toward the south as if he could see into the darkness and farther. “Where is your army?”

  “What army?”

  “The one being raised in Southren. The trees whisper of it.”

  “It is not my army. It is King Cetic’s army. The Great Alliance.”

  Arcturus harrumphed, indicating what he thought of that. “Cetic. Another in a long line of kings who try to unite warring people. How great is this alliance?”

  “Cetic is a strong leader. We have to unite. To fight the Airlia.”

  “That’s treason. Or is it heresy? Or both wrapped together? Most worship the Airlia, do they not? I suppose you don’t.” It was not a question. He pointed toward the grave. “He was missing something?”

  “I am about to go looking for what was taken from him,” Bren allowed.

  “Markus’s ka,” Arcturus said. “And you are Bren the Walker.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “What are you talking about?”

  “A ka looks like so.” Arcturus held up a hand cupped like a U, fingers on one side, thumb on the other. “But small. The device is two hands raised in prayer, but the arms are not attached to body or mind, just each other. There is symbolism in that which one can easily discern without delving too deeply. Worship requires obedience, not thought. You can see the image in Airlia hieroglyphics on their monuments around the world, particularly in Atlantis. But the actual device is of Airlia construction and its purpose unknown to humans. Except you, it seems. I saw you also had a device capable of discerning in what direction the ka has gone. Something I’ve never seen anyone else have. Except perhaps the Airlia? Given they claim to be gods.”

  “I have never been to Atlantis. What do you know of Airlia devices?”

  “I’m sure you’ve been to Atlantis, just never through the shield surrounding the Citadel-Tower. Very few other than those humans who’ve touched the Guardian and had their minds corrupted are allowed inside. It would seem the Airlia do not trust those who worship and obey them with free will.”

  “What do you know of the shield?”

  “It stops everything and everyone except what and who the Airlia approve. A more effective barrier than the seven walls, although they are impressive.”

  “We will breach them all. As free people. One day.”

  “’One day’,” Arcturus repeated. “But doubtful it will be this day. Nor any time soon. Unless there are forces I am not aware of.”

  “We will. And we will kill the Airlia.”

  “Noble and proud words,” Arcturus said, “as we stand here in the rain near the body of your comrade. But first things first. You search for what was taken from the chest of your—” he paused—“companion? His ka.”

  “I’m searching for his sword.”

  “That too.” Arcturus shook his head. “It will be a very unprofitable discussion if you deny reality. Markus’s ka was removed from his chest, post-mortem, it appeared. As soon as you saw the wound, you touched your own chest, so I must assume you have one also, do you not?”

  “You think and say too much, old man. I should cut you down where you stand.”

  “A foolish statement. You just confirmed my words and if you were going to kill me, then you’d do it, not speak it. Threats are empty words uttered by someone uncertain as to their course of action.” He inclined his head slightly, staring at her. “I do not think you are foolish, so you are uncertain. I will grant that you are off balance due to the death of your friend and the discovery that his ka is missing. That he faces the true death.”

  “You babble, old man. If you have information of value, tell me.”

  “I know who has the ka. And the sword.” Arcturus took a step closer and peered at her weapon. “It is like yours. Not forged by a blacksmith of this world, is it? What do you call it? A God-Killer? That might kill the Airlia if you could get close to them to chop their head off, would it not? And a strike elsewhere would be difficult to heal, unlike normal weapons. It is very hard to kill an Airlia.”

  Bren took a step back. “Who are you? What do you know of killing Airlia?”

  “I am not an enemy,” Arcturus said. “I could be a good ally. You could use one, could you not?”

  “How do you know my name? And why do you call me a Walker?”

  “That is what you are known as among those who know of you, is it not?”

  “Who has the sword?” Bren demanded.

  “You mean who has the sword and the essence of Markus in the ka?” Arcturus said
. He didn’t wait for an answer. “At least the latest iteration of him?”

  Bren’s hand tightened on the hilt of the sword, the only indication that his knowledge penetrated deep secrets. “Tell me who has them or I will kill you.”

  “That is your love speaking, not your mission,” Arcturus noted. He walked to a fallen log half blocking the road and sat down, shifting his robe around his body as he did so. “You must forgive an old man. I have traveled far in the last few days. And the night looks to give little respite.”

  Bren approached him, raising the sword to strike. A deep growl rumbled from the forest, dangerously close. She stopped. “What is that?”

  “A friend,” Arcturus said, “who does not like people threatening me.”

  Bren retreated several steps. “What is this friend? What kind of beast?”

  “One you would not be able to defeat.”

  She lowered the sword. “What are you? A warrior? You’re not a warg soldier of Atlantis. And you have too much awareness to be a wedjat priest of the Airlia.”

  “I am a traveler.” He looked about. “There used to a guard shack.” He pointed toward a pile of stones on one of the corners of the intersection. “There. And a tax collector. Hasn’t been in many a year. Since the Airlia let their little kingdom crumble.”

  “What kind of beast travels with you?”

  “She’s a friendly creature,” Arcturus said. “Most of the time. A wolfram.”

  “There are no more wolframs,” Bren said. “They are only a legend.”

  Arcturus leaned forward and put a single finger to his lips. “Shh. She can hear you. The Airlia hunted them for sport so you share that hatred in common with Isengrim.”

  “’Isengrim’? What kind of name is that?”

  “The one she told me,” Arcturus said. “When someone gives me the honor of sharing their name, I do not question it.”

  “You talk to the beast?”

  “When she deigns to converse with me,” Arcturus said. “She’s rather shy.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Which is why she’s not showing herself.”

  “Yet she makes her presence felt.” She focused. “What did you mean ‘little kingdom’? The Airlia ruled the world, now they just control Atlantis and levy the Tally. They didn’t let anything. Humans have forced them back, bit by bit. With our blood and courage.”